


The Vulnerability of the Night.

by astrophilian



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes is sad, Flashbacks, Gen, I started writing this and idk what this is, Mind Manipulation, Weird things, locked up bucky barnes, torture/killing flashbacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-04-23 05:13:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19144261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astrophilian/pseuds/astrophilian
Summary: These are his nights.They’re slow, and painful, and dark.





	The Vulnerability of the Night.

Bucky wakes up covered in sweat every night. He stares at the ceiling as he catches his breath, and the nightmares turn to nothing in his mind. Bucky feels those memories stack up somewhere, but he can’t access them right away - not that he would want that, anyway. He likes the darkness because it hides his tears. He doesn’t think he used to cry so much before Winter Soldier, but he doesn’t remember anything before Winter Soldier, so what would he know? He only knows he cries now, every night, because of his damn nightmares. Tears and sweat mix up as he wipes his face.

He hates the vulnerability of the night. How weak he feels; how alone. How this heavy feeling on his chest makes him sink into the mattress. How no matter how much he wants to get better and move on, he always seems to go back to killing sprees in his head.

_He’s turning a knife in his hand, as he walks through the corridors of a hideout. The mission is simple: find the victim, extract information, kill. He’s done it before, so many times he’s not sure he’s ever done anything but. He does so. He walks to where he knew the man would be, gets a hold of him and puts his knife to good use. The information extraction is slow, he doesn’t really wanna talk, and once he knows everything he needs to know, there’s a quick slice of the neck and a_ thud _._

He swifts in his bed, turning on his human arm. The light from the street draws the shadows of the trees and the blinds on the walls, and Bucky stares at them. It looks like a prison, like jail bars. The heavy feeling on his chest now moves up to his throat, and he has to sit up.

His hand pushes him up easily, as his legs fall to the side of the bed. They hit the floor and the anxiety that was just pushing his way into his head leaves for a second. He’s okay. He’s alive. He’s himself again… none of those are truths, but he keeps repeating them.

A sigh, hands moving up to his face to rub his eyes. The real one is warm, but the metal one just throws him off.

_The spinning sound is the first sign that something is going wrong. He’s no longer in the train, or falling, or half-buried in the snow, or bleeding himself to death. He’s in a lab, and his arm doesn’t hurt, and he’s tied to an examination table. Eyes fight to stay open, but the drugs keep dozing him off. Instead of fighting to see, however, Bucky settles for his hearing. The spinning sound on his left, closer every second; the voices talking on the background; the steps; the beeping of the machines; and then the breaking of the muscles and bone he had left in his arm; and the blood dripping to the floor; and his own screams; and then there is no more sound._

He’s standing up, now, pacing around the room. There’s barely anything as decoration; a picture frame that came with a nice landscape; his identification; a mirror; and some cheap, generic furniture. It wasn’t home, it wasn’t even a house. He’d been sleeping there because the others wanted to know where he was, and he didn’t have the strength to fight for anything other than this.

He didn’t deserve anything other than this, anyway, so why should he argue? He had a bed, that was all he needed.

T _he first time he sees his own reflection he stares at the metal arm for a solid minute. It doesn’t belong there, he thinks. He doesn’t know what belongs there, or why this wouldn’t. He’s a weapon, and this arm confirms it. It_ **does** _belong there. He stretches his fingers, twists his wrist, move his elbow around, and sees the metal adapt to his movements. It’s oddly fitting. This is what they gave him to help him save the world, and he knows how to use it. It’s - strange._

He looks at himself so differently, now. In the dim streetlamp light that gets to his room, he can see his silhouette in the mirror. The metal arm taking all the protagonism, as it would do every single day from then on. Bucky looks at it move, adapt, predict the next attack and defense. The arm learnt with him, learnt _from_ him… it took everything from him. They took everything from him.

Knees fall to the wooden floor, and he’d complain of the pain if he didn’t know the wounds wouldn’t last more than a day. Tears start falling down his cheeks, eyes now closed to try to hide; or stop; or avoid them. He’s sobbing, head falls forward and his messy bed-hair covers him from the world.

The world that he used to love, the one he doesn’t remember but that would give anything to go back to. The world that still had hope; and love; and friends; and that wasn’t stained forever with the blood of his victims. The world that now he felt just wanted to attack him. The world he’d join in order to kill himself. The world that had moved on from them; a world that had _forgotten_ about them. The world that was suddenly filled with hunger; and pain; and death; yet no one wanted to do anything about.

_“You’re helping the bigger cause, soldier.” He’s told. He doesn’t think twice about it and gets on with his missions. He should fight it, but there’s nothing in his mind other than his mission. The better he behaves, the lighter the pain will be. He’s just a pawn in this war, he was before the serum, and he’s now, too. It’s the same thing - right? “You’re doing what is necessary to achieve the greater good.” He doesn’t know whose ‘_ greater good _’, but he is too tired; too old to ask. The fighting and the war is too draining, too tiring. He doesn’t want to do this anymore._

Flesh hand dries his face, as the metal one pushes him off the floor. There’s a second where he doubts. He’s not sure where he is, his memory failing him - again. Steve, Tony, Sam - he’s safe now. Or is he? Is Hydra gone? Are they aware of what he’s done? Is he a prisoner?

Hesitant steps towards the door, hand hanging in the air. Silver fingers shine, surrounding the knob and turning it. _Locked_. Bucky shakes the door, nothing. So he is a prisoner. Quicker steps to the window. He’s in a security compound, surrounded by security guards everywhere. He feels the same anxiety hit his throat, and he swallows a scream. Instead, he sits on the bed and frowns.

Steve wouldn’t let him be there; locked and forgotten. This must be for his own good - or the world’s. Yes, that’s what it was. He was being protected. He was better there.

_“They manipulated him everyday, not only verbally but mentally” someone is confident in their diagnostic as they speak. “His brain was decoded and coded again. Nothing works like it used to, and I’m not sure it will ever do.”_

_“What are the effects?”_

_“Paranoia, lack of self-esteem, lack of self-control, easily manipulable, amongst others… we can’t fully know the damage done until we study him.”_

_“You wanna lock him up, again?”_

His back meets the mattress again, eyes examine the ceiling, the tears come back and the heavy feeling on his chest sinks him in.

These are his nights. They’re slow, and painful, and dark. No one to talk to; even if he knew what to say. Nothing to bring his old life back, or to form a new one. He hates the vulnerability of the night.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think!  
> Kudos and comments are appreciated if you enjoyed it?


End file.
